


Burning Bridges

by bionic



Category: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Off-screen Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionic/pseuds/bionic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some distant alternate universe where Dean is six feet under, Sam has just about driven himself crazy with grief.  Then he meets Alec.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in 2008 originally posted on my LJ, not ever beta'd but I hope it's still enjoyable.

At first, you weren’t completely sold on the subject.

He’d say “transgenic” and you’d nod and smile like you knew what he meant when all you saw and heard was “Dean.”

When you first ran into him, he gave you a split lip before you got your guard up and then he’d pulled you up off the dirty ground and dusted off your shoulders and apologized.

“Sorry, thought you were someone else.”

You’d looked at him like he was crazy and thought it was a demon, a shape-shifter. Your brother.

It was silent, hard work chasing him over the miles of potholed streets. He seemed determined to shake you loose, but you followed, you ran panicked when he got too far ahead, up long flights of stairs in a gutted high-rise apartment building with plaster practically flaking from the ceiling as you climbed. His footfalls were silent and yours were loud, bouncing off the walls, but every now and then you’d catch a glimpse of his faded jeans and black sweatshirt swinging around the corner, so you kept going.

“You’re hard to lose,” he’d said, looking out of breath. He was bent at the waist, leaning against a door labeled 1021.

You said nothing and tried to slow your breathing, pissed that he led you up ten stories. Then you wiped your forehead with your arm and pushed the hair off your face. He got you while you weren’t looking, kicking you in the shin with what felt like steel-toed boots and swinging you around, hurling you through the door. You felt the old rotting wood slam and splinter against your back before you tripped over your feet and then the wind was getting knocked out of your chest as you landed, hard, on the cold peeling linoleum.

You looked up in time to see him walking toward you with a purposeful stride, and then it was lights out as his fist connected with your face. You still thought it was your brother, so you couldn’t help but feel betrayed, and you wished like hell he’d remember you so he’d stop running because you knew when you woke up, he’d be gone.

But he was there, sitting in a swivel chair that creaked when he leaned forward as you blinked awake.

“So what’s your problem?” He asked. You were still sprawled on the floor, and when you sat up you could feel dust clinging to your back and sticking all along your forearms. “What d’you want?”

It was hard to say, at that moment. You didn’t want to scare him off, but you were still pissed about everything else. “My brother, Dean.” You blurted. When he looked completely confused, you said, “Dean,” and reached out to grab him, but he flinched back with wide eyes.

“Hey, buddy. I’m not like that.” He joked, but you could see the fear in his eyes. He thought you were the crazy one.

“I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else.” He rested his hands against his thighs, and your gaze was drawn there. His hands were the same, strong and capable, but slimmer. He hadn’t seemed to age since the last time you saw him, and that was the strangest thing of all, because you knew it’d been two years and you’d certainly aged, the worry lines in your forehead more pronounced, the scars and bruises and burns that had managed to work themselves into your skin forever had grown in number. He looked perfect, if a bit underfed, and there was no trace of the scar from a poorly timed throw on your end that had cut across his cheek. His hair was longer, but still the same shade of light brown. His eyes were just as haunted.

You knew it had to be him. Yet you couldn’t help but feel like you were reaching when he turned away, and another piece of hope in your heart – maybe the last, the very end of it – trickled through your chest until you couldn’t feel anything except a deep, fierce sadness. Because you knew just as surely that your brother had been dead for two years, knew the exact place where you’d buried the body, the exact words on the crudely made headstone, the exact smell of the earth that you’d turned over countless times to make sure he was still there, resting.

It seemed like hours went by. He sat there and you watched him. He looked far away, seeing something you couldn’t, and the deep silence was almost calming. You couldn’t look away even though you must have been staring, and he probably thought you were unhinged. But he seemed to drop his guard after a while, and then, eventually, as the sun sank lower through the broken blinds outside the small, dirty window, he started talking, pulling one leg up onto the chair. He looked vulnerable then, and you couldn’t remember the last time you saw your brother vulnerable, not even when his life was flowing out through his shirt, so red.

He’d say “X5-494” and “Manticore” and “freaks” and you heard “Dean,” “demons,” and “the chosen.” And maybe it was wishful thinking, but he looked relieved afterwards, like he was finally able to stop swallowing some big secret. You knew the feeling.

Then he shifted, unfolding himself and crawling out of the chair to slide down to the floor where he sat across from you. He stared at you, and you stared back, and for a few minutes it was like you were communicating without speaking. Except you weren’t, because the only thing you could understand were the bow of his lips, slight and protective, as if he wasn't going to let any more secrets slip out. You could read the jut of his chin, stubborn and challenging. He had to be Dean, you just knew.

“You’re not – what’s your name?” It was all you could manage, your throat felt dry and unused.

“I told you – I’m X5-494.”

You didn’t believe him. His eyes cut away in frustration before slicing back, clear and sharp. “Fine. It’s Alec.”

You tried the new name on your tongue, but it didn’t feel right. You missed the slow and smooth roll of ‘Dean’, the soft touch of consonants in your mouth and the yearning between the letters when you used to say it, call it, demons crawling on your back and whipping claws into your face.

“You don’t know who I am.”

He shook his head. “But you seem to think you know who I am.”

It was like an itch you couldn’t get at. “I don’t -. I’m not sure. But you look exactly like him.”

“Your brother?” He raised an eyebrow and it was like a sucker-punch to the gut. He was a spitting image.

“Do you have any coffee?” You needed something to fill your stomach because there was a gaping, empty cavern inside, trying not douse the last burning flame that you’d carried for so long in your heart. You needed something to occupy your hands or you were going to grab Alec’s face and kiss him all over, hug him until you couldn’t feel any air left between your bodies.

“Sure,” Alec said, and got up to root around in the kitchen. He pulled out a package of instant mix, turned the water on till it was scalding and the pipes were groaning, and when he handed you the chipped mug, you grabbed for it with greedy hands, brushing your fingers against his and feeling your pulse spike. Your breath flooded out in relief that he was real, he was here, he wasn’t just one of your many dreams or nightmares.

* * *

You traded stories, but never the whole picture. Alec kept his secrets close to his chest, just like Dean did, and you couldn’t begrudge him of it. At first he didn’t believe you, making noises and faces at your tales of ghost-hunting, corpse-burning, demon-exorcising adventures. But eventually, when the nostalgic, smiling clamor in your voice settled into a dull, low hum, when you were getting close to the end, he kept quiet and his face became somber. You couldn’t say it – Dean was _dead_ , and you couldn’t say it to Alec’s face because it was like saying it to Dean, and you couldn’t do that.

Alec knew how it ended anyway. He was good at reading people, he’d said as much, and he could read the lines of your slumped shoulders and quaking lips. He reached over and his hand hovered near your arm. He didn’t touch you after all, but you wanted so badly to collapse into him just then, to feel him solid against you, to have someone else hold you up, just for a while.

“You make my life sound easy,” Alec said, but he was smiling. Your chest hurt because everything about it reminded you of Dean.

“I think I should go.” You pushed up from the floor and stood with wobbly knees. You didn’t think you could take anymore of this, looking at him and seeing Dean and hearing Dean when he spoke. It was like bleeding out, or slowly carving out your own heart.

Alec shot up just as quick and reached out a hand, holding you by the elbow as you swayed. “Whoa, okay. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No, really, I should –”

It was hard to persuade Alec otherwise, and in that regard he was like Dean as well. There were so many similarities you were starting to lose track.

“Here,” he said and guided you to a ratty yellow sofa against the far wall. He pushed you down and you sunk into such thin cushions you could feel the coiled springs underneath. “Long day, you should just relax a bit. Crash here if you like.” He opened his hands, palms up, and waited for you to say yes.

You did, but only because it took more effort to get up than you could manage. The streets weren’t safe at night, Alec pointed out, and it didn’t take long before you were dozing off, slumped against the arm of the sofa with your head tipped back and your neck, for the first time in a long while, bared.

* * * 

You found out Alec liked eating dry cereal and flicking it into unsuspecting, open mouths while you were sleeping. When you almost choked, he offered you a giant cup of coffee and the whole box of honeyed O’s. You wound up sitting there on the couch with Alec next to you, your knees bumping as he talked. You passed the cereal back and forth and it was almost nice.

“So Sam, whaddya say we go down to the market and see if we can lift a couple of steaks? I’m starving.”

“Steaks?” The thought of food was inviting.

Alec looked over at you and cracked a smile. “Good fucking beef, trust me.”

You brought the steaks back to Alec’s apartment, all the way up ten floors which you were still getting used to, and still feeling exerted afterwards, and from somewhere Alec had procured a bottle of red wine, the bottle so dusty his fingerprints imprinted all over the dark glass.

“Special occasion,” he said by way of explanation and wagged his eyebrows. He plopped two plastic cups down and poured in each a generous amount. Then he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Dig in.”

You hadn’t had steak in years. It was good, a nice band of pink in the middle, tender and juicy enough that it melted on your tongue. Alec made lewd noises as he chewed and you couldn’t help it, you dropped your fork and your knife went clattering onto the table, it reminded you so much of Dean, the way he’d blissfully enjoyed a good meal. Even if it hadn’t been good – like the time you cooked a casserole and you’d screwed it up, of all things you thought you’d be safe from screwing up – and Dean had made those noises and silly faces and rolled his eyes as he forced slimy forkful after forkful into his mouth. You couldn’t help it. You remembered and it hurt, and Alec wasn’t Dean but you wanted him to be, so badly.

You downed your wine in one swallow, slamming the cup down too hard against the table and crumpling a little in your hand. Alec reached over and touched your wrist. His forehead creased with worry.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head and counted seconds. You weren’t going to lose it, not now.

“It’s me.” Alec said. His face became unreadable. He waited for you to say something or argue it, but you didn’t. “I look like Dean,” he said and his eyes fell to the half-eaten steak before him. “I’m really fucking sorry, Sam.”

He didn’t have anything to be sorry about. You were the one with the memories, and just because Dean haunted you every step of the way, and you took it like punishment, you took it willingly, Alec was just a genetically engineered superhuman who happened to be Dean’s twin. You had followed him home.

So you sucked it up, blinking back the wetness in your eyes. You knew for certain you found him for a reason. And you told Alec as much, turning over your hand and grabbing his, holding on tight for one brief second, and you were sure he gave you an odd look as you let go.

You picked up your fork and your knife and ate the best damn steak you ever had. For Dean, and for yourself, because you’d been hungry for so long.

* * *

It was four days since you started staying at Alec’s bare-bones apartment when you had one of your nightmares. Not a vision – never a vision, anymore – but something more twisted that left you shaking when you woke and completely covered in cold sweat. The thing is, you could never remember what you dreamt.

Alec was already up popping cereal in his mouth and flipping through an old newspaper when you woke up, gasping. You could hear him distantly over the rush of blood in your ears as he grabbed your shoulders, sweat dampening the cotton t-shirt and chilling your skin. His hands were warm, and he kept holding you as your head stopped pounding.

“Bad dream?”

You nodded, sick to your stomach, clammy all over. You never wanted a shower so badly your whole life.

When the spooked look in your face eased away, Alec stepped back and sat next to you on the couch. He picked at a frayed hole in his jeans, his head angled down and away. “Why did you stop?” He asked, like you were in the middle of a conversation and not something completely out of the blue.

You swallowed and tried to find a steady voice. “You mean after Dean.” Alec nodded, glanced quickly up at you before sliding his gaze away again like he was ashamed to be asking.

You asked yourself this question so many times before, but always came up with the same inevitable answer.

“There wasn’t a reason anymore. Evil, it’s – it’s endless. I could spend my entire life looking for them, for evil things. They just keep coming.” It wasn’t just that, though, and you knew it. It was the sinking feeling in your gut when you woke up each day and remembered Dean wasn’t beside you, the dark weight of unrest and chaos that coiled in your belly, ready to spring on a hair trigger. You were afraid of what you might do.

“But that doesn't mean you should stop trying.” You remembered him telling you about the way he found something and fought for it, for genetic mutations and engineered soldiers alike, for the black sheep of the flock.

“It was too hard.” You said, because it was the truth. Maybe he would see you as a coward for it, but at least you could admit it. “I couldn’t keep doing it.”

“Not even for him?”

When your head snapped up, he cleared his throat and shifted away. “Sorry. Just, from the way you talked about him, it seemed like that’s what he’d do in your shoes.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You’ve had the exact same thought before. In fact, the thought had run through your head endless times, chasing itself in circles. The guilt only kept piling on, but it felt good in that self-inflicting way that Dean always took on himself, back when he still could. It was time you started shouldering some of the weight, and the weight felt nice and solid, like you’d earned it.

You smirked, not surprised at the fondness creeping into your voice. “He always said I had a martyr complex. He kept trying to give me that perfect life even if he wouldn't admit it.” You weren’t sure what kind of admission that was, or maybe it was only an excuse, but it felt like the closest you could give as an apology to Dean’s memory, why you didn’t continue to hunt, why revenge just became a meaningless pit you couldn't crawl out of.

“Sounds like he was a bit of a martyr himself,” Alec mumbled. “Most of us are, when we have something to fight for.”

You heard the weary tone of his words, so perfectly tired and gravelly like the rumble of Dean’s own. It was achingly familiar and for the moment, you were just grateful you got to hear it. Something to ground you and make you feel less alone, someone who could help fill out the missing pieces of a life. He could never take Dean’s place, but it was the closest you were ever going to get at a second chance.

“Thank you.” He raised his head and you looked him dead in the eye. “For letting me stay here. Talking to you, it helps.”

Alec shrugged and the little up-down of his shoulders was so light, the sudden smile on his face leaving no room for shadows or anything else. “It’s nothing. You’re just one of many lost puppies I’ve had to take in over the years.”

And you knew he meant that quite literally, with what he’d told you about a mostly canine, one-third human friend of his.

“Hey,” Alec tapped your knee with a quick finger. “How do you feel about bikes?”

The rest of the day was spent biking through the streets. You felt like a kid at first, but it wasn’t because you were any less graceful than Alec. It was odd, and a bit surreal. You never owned a bike until you were at Stanford, where it seemed like the most efficient way to get around. Dean had taught you when you were little how to ride, climbing on top a forlorn bike he had found against the side of a motel one day, rust around the naked handlebars and all over the frame. Dean got new tires for it and you rode around, tight circles your favorite since you couldn’t find a steep enough incline to roar down, until Dad said it was time to move on.

“That was Sketchy’s bike,” Alec said and nodded to the one you were riding. You vaguely remembered Alec mentioning him before. “Left it here when he finally got a junker of a car. I couldn’t trash it.” He paused and angled his front wheel closer in until you were pedaling side by side. “Knew it’d come in handy one day,” he said and smiled, bright even under the gray, swollen sky.

You kept riding, following Alec down streets both familiar and not, and you had a feeling Alec was visiting old places full of old ghosts. He didn’t say anything, but the ramshackle and long abandoned buildings you passed, a high-rise with dusty windows, none of it seemed like random, passing landmarks. Men and women gathered around some of them, hunching together where the heat was, orange flames licking up from the insides of barrels.

“Ready to go back?” he asked, slowing to a stop outside of a particular squat building. You couldn’t imagine what used to be there, the outside painted over with graffiti. The tick-tick-ticking as you came to a stop beside him was loud, and the air was getting muggier by the second. Rain again, soon.

“Yeah,” you said, and followed Alec back. You were the only two people in the street for a while, but it felt like you were the only ones in the entire world. It wasn’t frightening at all.

* * *

It was never a good idea.

Alec was reading aloud some unkind article about genetic anomalies in an old magazine, sprawled on the couch beside you in that loose way he had, one leg up and the other spread wide, and you were almost at the edges of sleep when you saw Dean in your mind’s eye reading about the mysterious death of a city girl from a newspaper. Their voices got mixed up in your head, blurring into one continuous long rising and falling of sounds, and then Dean’s image smiled at you, quirked an eyebrow. You tipped over into Alec’s chest and barely realized what you were doing – your mouth sloppily dragging along Alec’s own in mid-sentence – and Alec only stared at you. He gently touched your shoulders and pushed you back, and you blinked awake.

“Dean…I’ve always wanted to…” but the words lodged in your throat, just as they had come out, completely of their own volition.

“Well I’m not him.” Alec was barely able to close off fast enough; you could see something in his face as he turned away. You were silent, but knew he was waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, he walked quietly out the door and you didn’t go after him.

You didn’t see him for three days. Wherever he went, you were sure he could handle himself. He’d turn up again eventually, so you puttered around in the apartment and only went out for occasional rides because there was nothing else to do, not because you were looking for him. Maybe it was better you never saw him again. If only you could make yourself believe that.

There wasn’t much else to think about besides Dean. You were already pretty clear on that subject, and the need to do something to rekindle his memory was like a slow burn in your chest, wanting to scorch its way out and somehow manifest.

In those three days, the weather had dropped considerably with the constant slow trickle of rain, and the apartment grew colder. You ran out of wood for a fire, so you dug through Alec’s messy drawers and wrangled on an old sweater, constantly pulling at the high collar because you weren’t accustomed to the tight, constrictive press around your neck.

“I really hated wearing those,” Alec had explained, not many days before. “But they covered up the barcode. I still kinda want to burn them for fashion’s sake, now that it doesn’t matter anymore.”

On the fourth day, you were stepping out of a cold shower before struggling on a clean pair of jeans you’d found when Alec was suddenly just there, standing inside the doorway. He shifted and looked away.

“Had to, um. Visit a friend.”

You weren’t going to question him, not unless he felt like talking, and it didn’t seem like he did.

“Are you gonna make a habit out of wearing my clothes?” He asked when he recognized the jeans. You shrugged and walked over to the couch, picking up a long-sleeved thermal that was also his.

“Left what little I had in that alley, when I saw you. Bag's probably gone by now,” you said and pulled the shirt on. It was a bit snug, like the jeans were a tad short.

“Look,” Alec began, wasting no time on awkward silences. He paced back and forth between the couch and the kitchen counter. “I know you miss him, and it’s gotta be hard seeing his face every day.” He stopped, turned and faced you in the middle of the room. His hair was damp from the rain, and his lashes were spiked in wet clumps. He didn’t look distressed or annoyed or even angry, just resigned. “But I’m not him, and I’ll never be him. So if you think you can’t handle that…”

You sank down on the couch and rubbed your hands on your thighs. “I know. But I really do like you, Alec. You’re not a bad guy.”

“Gee, thanks,” Alec rolled his eyes and spread his palms. “Now my life is complete.”

With that, some of the tension faded from the room, but you realized you couldn’t be the one to extend the olive branch. It wasn’t clear if Alec still trusted you like he once did, or even if he still liked you.

“What I did – I’m sorry. I was half asleep…” you began to apologize, but Alec just shook his head.

“No, I get it. It’s okay, you secretly pined for you brother or whatever,” Alec said.

You got up then, unable to sit and watch him explain it away. He wasn’t Dean, but he was someone else that you could see yourself standing beside, and it felt like something was finally going right.

“Yeah, so I’m a little – messed up.” You smiled, and Alec grinned back slowly, unsure at first. “But I’d like to stick around, if you want me.”

“Not just because I look like him?” Alec asked, raising an eyebrow though his lips were smiling.

“No,” you shook your head. “You’ve got many other good qualities, like the way you stuff your face – ” A shoe was being thrown, you hastily threw up your arms and laughed into the warm body that followed after, tumbling into your side.

So it was never a good idea, but it was by far one of the easiest decisions you ever made. Stick with Alec, and maybe you could wash off some of that blood from your hands. Maybe Dean could finally rest without you constantly picking up his memory again and dragging it around like old grave dirt, stuck to the folds in your skin.

 

the end.


End file.
